


Sometimes All I Can See Is How I Feel

by tommygirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Remix, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommygirl/pseuds/tommygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sam doesn't even need injuries on a hunt to knock him out. Luckily, Dean is there to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes All I Can See Is How I Feel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Little Fish](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/22339) by memphis86. 



If there’s ever an award for falling to the ground unconscious, Sam will be the surefire winner. One minute Sam is fine, grumbling under his breath and complaining about how hot it is. Next thing Dean knows, Sam bursts out of the car like he has to escape, and before Dean even has his own door open, his brother is eating pavement.

Dean’s pretty sure that his heart stops beating for a nanosecond before he’s moving toward Sam. He runs his hands over Sam’s body, looking for any obvious wounds, but finds nothing. It doesn’t look like he was hurt while they were hunting the small-time ghost (that would’ve been embarrassing) but that only worries Dean more, especially since Sam is still unconscious.

He lifts his brother off the ground and says, “Sam? Sammy, whattaya doing to me?”

Sam doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all, and Dean works to get him back into the car. Sam is all limbs and fucking heavy as hell, and it’s times like these that Dean curses his brother for being a ginormous mutant.

“Jesus Sammy, you’re killing me here,” Dean groans as he manages to get Sam’s legs into the backseat only to have the rest of him slide out. It takes three tries before Sam stays put, providing Dean with enough time to run around to the other side and pull him the rest of the way through.

Dean tries to ignore the panic coursing through him and focuses on all the ways his brother is going to owe him. If he thinks about how he will be able to refer to his brother as “delicate” and tease him mercilessly _for months_ , he’ll keep it together. He won’t be any use to Sam if he’s freaking out – so what if Sam hasn’t woken up yet and Dean doesn’t know why – but seeing him hurt is something that never gets any easier to stomach.

On a quick once-over, Dean doesn’t notice any injuries to alert him to what’s going on, but the minute he cuts open Sam’s shirt (probably not necessary, but the little bitch has it coming), he notices how sweaty Sam is, even though his skin is cool to the touch. That can’t be good.

He can feel Sam’s pulse racing beneath his fingertips, “Shit,” he says, and runs his hand over Sam’s face. “You couldn’t have warned me you didn’t feel well? I would’ve handled the fucking ghost myself.”

Dean glances around. A rest area is not the ideal place for something like this to happen, but rarely does luck work in the Winchester’s favor. He shuts the door, careful not to hit Sam, and rushes toward the bathroom to soak paper towels with cold water. It’s not the optimal choice, but it’s all Dean has to work with until he can get them to a motel.

Sam starts muttering incoherently as Dean wrings the water out of the paper towels and gently rubs it along his brother’s skin. Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair and says, “It’s okay, Sammy. I’ve got you. You’re fine.”

**

Dean doesn’t really believe in God, but he knows something is on his side when he finds a motel two miles down the road from the rest stop and he can’t help but thank whoever might be listening. Sam has been quiet for most of the trip, almost motionless, and that scares Dean more than Sam’s few moans of pain.

The motel is a craphole with rooms lifted right out of the seventies, complete with neon colored shag carpets, and a Norman Bates-type front desk clerk. Not the worst or strangest dive they’ve stayed in and Dean’s not going to complain so long as the tub and ice machines work.

He doesn’t worry about unpacking or putting down salt lines, just flips the air conditioning on to its coolest setting and turns the faucet on to fill up the tub. As soon as the water begins to trickle out, he heads out to the car to get Sam.

Dean’s not quite sure what he’s doing or why he’s even doing it. Instinct and necessity take over. He gets Sam undressed and into the cold water, runs the wash cloth over Sam’s skin and occasionally dumps a cup of water over his head. Every so often, he adds more cold water to the tub when the water becomes lukewarm. Sam’s still sweating, groaning every so often and shifting around in the tub, but mostly he remains unconscious.

“You always have to scare the shit out of me, don’t ya?” Dean comments, rubbing the washcloth over Sam’s forehead. “There was this one time…you had just turned five years old and you had a really bad fever. Medicine wasn’t working and it was just you and me. The medical journal dad had said to bath you in ice water, so I got all the ice cubes from the freezer and emptied them into the tub, but you kept fighting me. You had your arms around me so tight and your eyes were filled with tears and you kept saying ‘don’t Dean, please don’t.’ I didn’t want to, but I was scared you were going to die and I didn’t want to call for help because Dad was hunting...”

Dean puts the washcloth aside and runs a hand over his face, trying to remove the weariness of the last few hours. He sighs and continues, “I finally had to climb into the tub first, fully clothed, before I could get you in there. Fucking freezing, and of course, Dad came in and wanted to know what the fuck was going on. I burst into tears.”

Dean chuckles at the memory – the look on his father’s face had been priceless. He takes a deep breath and says, “Old man loved that. He never did know what to do with us when we cried.” Dean pushes a strand of Sam’s hair back away from his face and says, “I really wish he was here right now, man. He’d know what he was doing.”

Sam groans and shifts. His eyes don’t open, but he mutters, “Dean…”

“I’m here, Sammy.”

“Dean…”

Dean shuts his eyes against the pained sound of his brother’s voice. He lifts Sam’s hand up in his own and repeats, “I’m here.” He’s not sure if Sam can hear him, but there’s no way in hell he’s gonna let his brother think he’s alone.

Dean sighs, releasing Sam’s hand, as he stands up. He tries to stretch the tension out of his muscles, but it doesn’t work. His chest aches and his eyes sting like he’s some fucking little kid. He hates watching his brother hurting, hates his father for not being here to help them, and hates the fact that he can’t take his brother to a hospital because they might be arrested on sight.

Mostly, he hates feeling completely useless. There is no bad guy to kill. All he can do is dry Sam off and put him to bed. He has to hope that Sam can fight this off on his own.

Problem is, Dean’s never been too good with hope. That’s always been Sam’s area of expertise.

**

Dean runs the chunk of ice over Sam’s jaw and throat. Sam’s heart rate has slowed down a bit, and Dean takes that as a good sign. He’s pretty sure, after searching the internet and running to the drug store, that Sam is dealing with heat exhaustion. Dean makes a mental note to kill Sam for not saying something about his symptoms sooner. How could Sam let it get it so bad without mentioning it? Sam harps on Dean to drink water and take vitamins, and then Sam’s the asshole who ends up collapsing.

Every so often, Sam says something random and bizarre, but Dean shrugs it off and continues with the ice. He keeps glancing at the clock, making bargains with himself – _still unconscious in fifteen minutes, we go to hospital_ – and tries to pass the time by humming Metallica under his breath.

He flips Sam over onto his stomach and begins tracing ice over the curves of the muscles along Sam’s back. He’s almost done with his own extended rendition of “Don’t Tread on Me” when the bed shifts and squeaks as Sam groans and turns over.

He blinks up at Dean, confusion and sleepiness etched into his expression, and Dean doesn’t know whether to kiss him or punch him. Instead, he says, “You need a hospital? Another cold shower?”

Sam looks down at himself and around the room before focusing his gaze back on Dean. He remains quiet, which worries Dean a little, but Dean tries to keep that out of his voice as he adds, “I think you’ve got heat exhaustion.”

Sam sounds like he’s chewing on a mouthful of cotton when he tries to respond. After the last few hours of hell, Dean can’t help but laugh. It’s ridiculous and it pisses Sam off, but after a few minutes of trying to understand Sam’s bad miming, he asks, “So, hospital, yes or no?”

Sam shakes his head “no” in response. Dean arranges the pillows so that Sam can sit up and grabs some more ice and a few bottles of water. He chucks a bottle onto the bed and says, “Drink it.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just twists the cap off and downs half the bottle in one gulp.

Dean grins. “Impressive.”

Sam coughs and says, “Thanks.”

Dean flips the television on, hoping that there is something to watch, and hops onto the bed next to Sam. They sit shoulder to shoulder in quiet for awhile before Sam rests his head on Dean’s shoulder and says, “I had weird dreams.”

“Better than visions, right?”

“I guess. Sorry I scared you.”

”I knew you’d be fine,” Dean replies. Sam glances up at him, rolls his eyes – sometimes Dean hates how well Sam knows him – and Dean adds, “But next time, asshole, tell me you don’t feel well. I could’ve handled the simple haunting myself.”

“I thought I was just tired.”

“Still…”

“I don’t care if it was a ‘simple haunting’ or not. I don’t like not being there to have your back,” Sam says.

Dean smiles as Sam closes his eyes, but he nudges Sam in the side before he can fall asleep and points to the other bottle of water. He says, “Drink that first.”

“I’m not…”

“Do it or I dump you in a tub of ice water.”

Sam glares at him, but picks up the other bottle of water and takes a long sip. He swallows loudly for Dean’s benefit, and then curls up against Dean. He says, “You should get some rest. I have plans for you later.”

Dean’s arm goes around Sam, pulling him closer. Within minutes Sam is snoring softly and Dean finally feels his own exhaustion hit him. He turns the light and television off and shuts his eyes. He has no idea what Sam was talking about, but rest isn’t such a bad idea.

_{Fin}_


End file.
